And even more surprising... I think he knew that I knew that.
The inside of the circus tent was painted with blue sky. Artificial clouds rose into the peaks, above the black iron of the gallows that had been constructed. I wondered if Shay would look at it and pretend that he was outside.
The tent itself was divided by a line of correctional officers, who kept the witnesses for both sides separated, like a human dam. We had been warned about our behavior in the letters from the Department of Corrections: any name-calling or inappropriate actions would result in us being hauled out of the tent. Beside me, Father Michael was praying a rosary.
On my other side sat Rufus Urqhart, my boss.
I was shocked to see June Nealon sitting quietly in the front row across from us.
Somehow I'd assumed she'd be with Claire, especially given the fact that Claire would be getting ready for her heart transplant. When she'd called to tell me she wanted Shay's heart, I hadn't asked any questions-I hadn't wanted to jinx it. Now I wished I could go over to her and ask whether Claire was all right, if everything was on schedule-but I would run the risk of the officers thinking I was harassing her; and truth be told, I was afraid to hear her answer.
Somewhere behind that curtain, Christian was checking to make sure the rope and noose were exactly as they should be to ensure as humane a hanging as possible. I knew this was supposed to comfort me, but to be honest, I had never felt more alone in my life.
It was a hard thing, accepting to myself that I had befriended someone convicted of murder. Lawyers knew better than to become emotionally and personally involved with their clients-but that didn't mean it didn't happen.
At exactly ten o'clock, the curtains opened.
Shay seemed very small on the gallows platform. He wore a white
T-shirt, orange scrub pants, and tennis shoes, and was flanked by two officers
I'd never seen before. His arms were fastened behind him, and his legs were bound together with what looked like a strap of leather.
He was shaking like a leaf.
Commissioner Lynch walked onto the platform. 'There has been no stay of execution,' he announced.
I thought about Christian's hands checking the knot against Shay's neck. I knew the mercy of his touch; I was grateful that Shay's last physical contact with a human would be gentle.
The warden stepped onto the platform as Lynch exited, and he read the entire warrant aloud. The words slipped in and out of my mind:
... Whereas on the sixth day of March, 1997, Isaiah Matthew Bourne was duly and legally convicted of two counts of the crime of capital murder...
... said court pronounced sentence upon Isaiah Matthew Bourne in accordance with said judgment fixing the time for the execution for ten a.m. on
Friday, the twenty-third of May, 2008...
... command you to execute the aforesaid judgment and sentence by hanging in a manner that produces brain death in said Isaiah Matthew Bourne...
When the warden finished, he faced Shay. 'Inmate Bourne, do you have any final words?'
Shay squinted, until he found me in the front row. He kept his eyes on me for a long moment, and then drifted toward Father Michael. But then he turned to the side of the tent where the witnesses for the victim were gathered, and he smiled at June Nealon. 'I forgive you,' he said.
Immediately afterward, a curtain was drawn. It reached only to the floor of the gallows, and it was a translucent white. I didn't know if the warden had intended for us to see what was happening behind it, but we could, in macabre silhouette: the hood being placed over Shay's head, the noose being tightened against his neck, the two officers who'd secured him stepping backward.
'Good-bye,' I whispered.
Somewhere, a door slammed, and suddenly the trap was open and the body plummeted, one quick firecracker snap as the weight caught at the end of the rope. Shay slowly turned counterclockwise with the unlikely grace of a ballerina, an October leaf, a snowflake falling.
I felt Father Michael's hand on mine, conveying what there were not words to say. 'It's over,' he whispered.
I don't know what made me turn toward June Nealon, but I did. The woman sat with her back straight as a redwood, her hands folded so tightly in her lap that I could see the half-moons her own nails were cutting in her skin. Her eyes were tightly squeezed shut.
After all this, she hadn't even watched him die.
The lower curtain closed three minutes and ten seconds after Shay had been hanged. It was opaque, and we could not see what was happening behind it, although the fabric fluttered with movement and activity. The officers in the tent didn't let us linger, though-they hustled us out separate doors to the courtyard. We were led out of the prison gates and immediately inundated with the press. 'This is good,' Rufus said, pumped up with adrenaline. 'This is our moment.' I nodded, but my attention was focused on June. I could see her only briefly, a tiny crow of a woman ducking into a waiting car.
'Mr. Urqhart,' a reporter said, as twenty microphones were held up to his face, a bouquet of black roses. 'Do you have any comment?'
I stepped back, watching Rufus in the limelight. I wished I could just vanish on the spot. I knew that Rufus didn't mean to use Shay as a pawn here, that he was only doing his job as the head of the ACLU-and yet, how did that make him different from Warden Coyne?
'Shay Bourne is dead,' Rufus said soberly. 'The first execution in this state in sixty-nine years... in the only first world country to still have death penalty legislation on the books.'
He looked out over the crowd. 'Some people say that the reason we have a death penalty in this country is because we need to punish certain inmates. It's said to be a deterrent-but in fact, murder rates are higher in death penalty jurisdictions than in those without it. It's said to be cheaper to execute a man than to keep him in prison for life-but in fact, when you factor in the cost of eleven years of appeals, paid for with public funds, it costs about a third more to execute a prisoner than to sentence him to life in prison. Some people say that the death penalty exists for the sake of the victims' family-that it offers closure, so that they can deal, finally and completely, with their grief. But does knowing that the death toll has risen above and beyond their family member really offer justice? And how do we explain the fact that a murder in a rural setting is more likely to lead to a death sentence than one that occurs in the city?
Or that the murder of a white victim leads to the death penalty three and a half times more often than the murder of a black victim? Or that women are sentenced to death only two-thirds as often as men?'
Before I realized what I was doing, I had stepped into the tiny circle of space that the media had afforded to Rufus. 'Maggie,' he whispered, covering the mikes, 'I'm working this here.'
A reporter gave me my invitation. 'Hey, weren't you his lawyer?'
'Yes,' I said. 'Which I hope means I'm qualified to tell you what I'm going to. I work for the ACLU. I can spout out all the same statistics that
Mr. Urqhart just did. But you know what that speech leaves out? That I am truly sorry for June Nealon's loss, after all this time. And that today, I lost someone I cared about. Someone who'd made some serious mistakes- someone who was a hard nut to crack-but someone I'd made a place for in my life.'
'Maggie,' Rufus hissed, pulling at my sleeve. 'Save the true confessional for your diary.'
I ignored him. 'You know why I think we still execute people? Because, even if we don't want to say it out loud-for the really heinous crimes, we want to know that there's a really heinous punishment. Simple as that. We want to bring society closer together-huddle and circle our wagons-and that means getting rid of people we think are incapable of learning a moral lesson. I guess the question is: Who gets to identify those people? Who decides what crime is so awful that the only answer is death? And what if, God forbid, they get it wrong?'
The crowd was murmuring; the cameras were rolling. 'I don't have children. I can't say I'd feel the same way if one of them was killed. And I don't have the answers-believe me, if I did, I'd be a lot richer-but you know, I'm starting to think that's okay. Maybe instead of looking for answers, we ought to be asking some questions instead. Like: What's the lesson we're teaching here? What if it's different every time? What if justice isn't equal to due
